“Between us and heaven or hell is only life, which is the frailest thing in the world.”.

I’m racing the inevitable,
my only weapon an
optimistic fantasy
of permanent youthfulness.

The 1970s are to blame.
My generation is to blame.
We started this crap,
pretending we could play
where, before,
only teenagers and children could.

In my head, I’m still about 32,
on a stone patio of
a casino in Saint Tropez, in sandals,
skimpy swimming trunks,an open silk shirt and
stylish sunglasses,
swirling a martini while
chatting up a starlet,
the two-seater gleaming
in the Mediterranean sun nearby,
ready for a getaway.

In reality, I get winded
climbing a flight of stairs.
My curmudgeonly GP–
he’s been staring at my charts for 30 years–
doesn’t bother with happy talk.
He grumbles and issues dark warnings
about my cholesterol and sugar levels,
reminds me another stroke is lurking.
Man, talk about harshing my calm, doc.

I’m thinking of offering to sign a
release of liability for him, and
apologize insincerely for
being such a disappointment.
But his pills make me ache and feel old,
which is a real drag
for a man devoted to delusions
of a perpetual youth that never was,
and never will be again.
Tinkerbell lied:
It is not enough simply to believe…

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I remember him. He was sitting in the heat on the dock waiting for the ferry to Okracoke, Island in the Outer Banks, NC. It was probably sometime in '72 or '73. He'd driven nearly 12 hours straight and was so tired he couldn't understand the accents of the natives there. I wonder whatever happened to him? I heard a rumor that he married a skinny Irish girl and they settled down somewhere, had a couple of boys, got old. He put on a few pounds. She's still got the girlish shape that caught his eye all those years ago. He probably still has that shirt, though, and still wishes he looked like this. The idiot.

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